Fighting the FEAR, depression and BDP on a daily basis AND making my own bread. Bring it on 2016….

Monthly Archives: October 2013

Have you ever stood by and watched your best friend sell herself short on some useless guy/girl?

Have you ever let them share the inevitable unfolding drama day after day, week after week, with half of you trying hard to be a friend, to listen honourably and be patient, when the other half of you is silently screaming ‘What did I tell you? WTF? Why are you still doing this?!’

Have you ever watched someone you love in the throes of terminal bad relationship addiction whilst knowing in your heart that it can, and will only end badly?

This is my pep talk to my beautiful, big hearted, pocket rocket of a friend, ‘Perri’; I only wish I could share it with her.

You’re still seeing him, aren’t you?

I know you’re deliberately not telling me about it because inside you feel like a fool, and you know i see through all your bullshit bravado, and think I’m going to scream ‘Told you so!’.

But I won’t. What good will that do either of us sweetie?

To be honest with you, I don’t entirely blame him. He’s a user, you’re a martyr, you found one another, the attraction was overwhelming, you locked together like magnets and now you’re tight in the coils this most unhealthy, unholy, unsavoury of unions.

And the sex, coupled with your need to mother, tripled with your love of being the perpetual victim, compounded with his overpowering Oedipus complex means that you could be in his life and, more to the point, at his service for a very long time.

Much to your detriment.

You get upset when I tell you to end it, and accuse me of not liking him.

I don’t know him, Perri! I only know what you tell me….

Adnan may be a six foot two slab of intense, scowling, burning lurve, but he has some serious issues. And I speak as someone in the ‘takes one to know one’ position.

The most exasperating thing of all is that you know that he’s done this before, as your predecessor is now stalking both of you, totally heartbroken and hell bent on revenge.

He tells you that he’s finished with her and she’s only a friend now, but that’s what he does.

Seduces older, grateful women past child bearing age, tells them that he wants to marry and have children one day so he cannot commit, works on them until they are totally besotted with him, tells them he loves them, will always love them so that they cannot, will not finish with him. In the meantime he keeps scanning the horizon for a better offer, in the safe and certain knowledge that if he never actually meets a potential wife, he has a couple of options on the side as a back up and will never be lonely.

That said, if she does rock up, young, eligible with a body to die for and a belly full of eggs, you can bet that he’ll drop you like a well sucked, dried up old orange and kick you to the kerb.

Not entirely though.

He’ll want to stay ‘friends’ because he still cares for you in his way. So he’ll keep in touch, drop by occasionally for dinner and give you a reason to cook and set the table as opposed to having a lonely TV meal on your lap. He’ll be smart enough to fuck you occasionally just to keep you wanting more, then go back to his juicy young missus, safe in the knowledge that you’ll welcome him with open arms if it all goes wrong or she’s having an off night or on her period.

Unless he finds another younger version of you, that is.

Or should I say ‘when’.

Perri, you have to walk away. Now.

It’s not like I don’t get it. I’ve been approached by the Adnan’s of this world before now, but instead of looking like a long, cool glass of water on a sultry day, to me, they look more like a poisoned chalice full to the brim with danger and misogyny.

Seductive, sexy, self assured and absolutely 100% all out for themselves.

So apart from the occasional dalliance over the last 30 odd years, where I’ve briefly used their body, and then done the kerb kicking thing myself, I’ve always sidestepped such Lotharios.

Because I would never let anyone like that have power over me in that way. Hell I don’t let anyone have power over me, so men like that have no chance!

Me no likey.

That’s not to say that I don’t sometimes envy you the sex, the passion, the excitement, and the luxury of being held in the arms of another. But the risk far outweighs the pleasure as far as I’m concerned, so NO, I don’t want to be fixed up with his friend from the dry cleaners!

This guy really has it all, you know? And old friend/lover who welcomes him with open arms and a nice home cooked dinner whenever he deems to see her, you as his main fuck buddy and overall support system, AND a young Iranian woman to date and check out apropos to her potential as his future wife.

And you?

You wait in the wings and tell yourself you don’t want him permanently, encouraging him to find Miss Right and sneering at that old lady for her anger, clinginess and desperation, because you’re so much more sophisticated and emotionally mature than her, and want to meet an older guy to settle down with anyway.

But guess what? He won’t let that happen, because he wants to keep you on board for as long as he needs you, and whilst you’re getting some from him, you might kid yourself that you are, but you won’t be looking elsewhere.

And when that day comes when he has had enough of you, you’ll be too old to meet anyone else, and guess what?

You’ll have morphed into her; furious, defeated, desperate, well past your ‘sell by’ and willing to keep him on any terms, and then and only then will the penny drop and you’ll finally realise that you’ve been had.

And don’t tell me that you’ll end up being friends with him and live happily ever after.

Honey, it’s not possible to be friends with someone you have this amount of chemistry with.

Cut the cord. Delete his number. Change yours and walk away from this.

Whilst you still can.

Because you, my bright, beautiful, passionate friend, deserve so much more than being some arsehole’s good ole Mrs Right-Now, and should be free to meet some lovely silver fox who’ll wine, and dine, and totally spoil you rotten.

Do you ever find yourself totally taken over by one thing, one person, one incident, one insult and let it become your entire world?

As an example of this, whilst women are meant to be good multi taskers, I seem to be totally incapable of the art of balance and perspective, and am very easily coaxed down a hollow in search of that elusive something I must have and no other.

Especially since the advent of t’internet and the oh so addictive search engines, I can while away hours, no, days searching for the name of a song I heard on the radio, a pair of boots I saw in a magazine, a recipe for apple cake, a cashmere scarf or a vintage pair of book ends on eBay.

Especially if there are more sensible and important things that need to be done.

Like getting a job or setting up a business.

This handicap of mine also has a more sinister, dangerous side.

Any negative encounter or experience, be it a curt rebuff, a slight, an accident, a let down, a sneer, the tiniest of rejections and my world will suddenly be falling down around my ears.

I can be pootling along, relatively at peace with the world, minding my own business and something will happen, and then that ONE THING will suddenly totally eclipse everything that was OK, good, or downright lovely, and my whole world will be tainted by a horrible, dark, sticky, contaminating cloud of hideousness that will cause me to sink to the ground in despair, then grab me by the hair drag me down said hole like a rag doll.

‘There is no point in resisting’, it silently seems to say, ‘no one will miss you anyway.’

The last time this happened was one Saturday. I was having a perfectly pleasant evening chilling in front of ‘Strictly’ with my cats, when a neighbour caught me unawares and pretty much forced her way into my flat to discuss some outstanding, rather contentious issue.

As you might have guessed, I don’t like people turning up unannounced and interrupting my favourite programme.

Nor do I like this woman.

She has something of the ‘smiling assassin’ about her, and whilst I conversed with her and her lessor-of-the-two evils companion in a fairly amicable manner, by the time she left, I felt defiled, tainted, railroaded and hugely outraged that my territory had invaded.

I let her in! How did that happen?

It happened because of my cursed British politeness of course, and because we live in a shared community, so to a greater or lessor degree, it’s better that we get along with one another.

So when she rang my buzzer, I was not really able to cry down the intercom ‘BEGONE, WHORE OF SATAN!’

But I kind of wish I had.

Because after they left, I slid down a sticky, stinking slope of despair and got really paranoid about it.

She just came in.

Just like that.

Knowing I didn’t want her there.

Smirking and nodding with hatred and scorn in her eyes.

This is MY HOME.

And then I had to drink in order to get to sleep.

So I woke up the next morning feeling really shit after mixing my meds with booze.

These ‘one thing’s seem creep up on me and mess with my world ALL THE TIME.

The other week, some rather odd woman at one of my Meet Ups totally blanked me when I addressed her cheerily, directly and very publicly.

She may have been distracted, shy, or just plain rude, but I felt exposed, rejected and very, very humiliated.

And whilst she is one of the most bland people I have ever met, I made that encounter my all for the following three days and nights when I took to my bed and thought about ways of not being here anymore.

It didn’t matter that I didn’t and don’t desire her company or friendship.

It’s the fact that I’m shit and even she knows it.

My obsessive focus on that one thing, be it to the greater or lessor extreme is extremely debilitating as they stop me getting on and making any real progress in my life, and Aunty C (my counsellor) is always giving out to me about it.

‘Seriously what is that person to you?’ she’ll rail at me in frustration, ‘Do they honestly matter enough to get you in a state like that?’

‘I know it was rude of that company not to come back to you about that job! But would you honestly want to work for someone with manners like that?’

‘So you friend is ignoring you! Get on with your life, and when she comes crawling back, you will be her equal, not some needy sidekick!’

And when I waste time searching for that elusive thing/information/must have item, she’ll accuse my ‘bad parent’ of ‘allowing my child to run riot’ presumably whilst she’s watching Jeremy Kyle, gorging on Hob Nobs whilst swigging gin or something.

But both me and ‘my parent’ find it so hard to prioritise, balance things out and find/maintain perspective though.

So the other day when some stupid twat hit my car, the third time it has happened this year and at NO TIME my fault, I had to chant to myself, mantra style ‘It’s just one thing, just one thing, not everything’ and remind myself of:

My health

The roof over my head (well for this month anyway)

My cats

My friends

That loaf of freshly baked bread cooling on the hob

The Ceilidh dance just a week away

Those beautiful skeins of burnt orange silken yarn, sat in a duck egg blue shopping bag on top of my dresser.

And that time, at least, I kept the Horseman at bay.

But he waits patiently as his horse tears at the turf restlessly with it’s hooves, for the next opportunity to take me down.

As for the smug bastards boasting about their package, some guys have big dicks because God actually left their BRAINS down there by mistake, and I prefer a man to have his between his ears, thank you very much.

Patrick sweetie, just make sure that you master cunnilingus and be creative with your fingers and all will be good in the hood.

As it were.

I’d much sooner have someone smart and funny with a conservative cock than a big dumb cock on legs as they don’t usually know what to do with it anyway. Let’s face it, a donkey has a massive member, but who the hell would want to fuck it?

Whatever your size guys, if you operate on the basis of ‘ladies first’ and blow her mind, you’ll still be in demand, promise! x

A NEW Documentary about a “UnHung Hero”

Don’t Judge. But…Someone Made a Documentary About Having a Small Penis!

Evidently, Patrick Moote — a man who briefly because Internet famous for a failed proposal caught on a Kiss Cam at a sports game — has smaller-than-average penis. But instead of worrying about it in private, as most men do, he and filmmaker Brian Spitz decided to make Unhung Hero, a documentary all about the trials and tribulations of having a small dick. On a certain level the doc looks pretty cockamamie (sorry, had to) and feels like the movie equivalent of that “deranged sorority girl” getting a book deal. But as folks who are well read in Judith Bordo’s The Male Body and are no strangers to sizing up penises, we have to admit that the premise of investigating how people around the world view small…

Turns out old Gibbie wrote this book called ‘The Prophet’ which is made up of 26 prose poems, delivered as sermons by the protagonist, a wise man called Al Mustapha who is about to set sail for his homeland after 12 years in exile on a fictional island when the people of the island ask him to share his wisdom on the big questions of life: love, family, work and death which he delivers by way of these ad hoc one liners.

Which would explain why it’s so frigging long.

I did start reading it with every intention of (a) finishing it (b) learning something from it (c) getting something useful for my post, but by the time I’d got a third of the way through it, I kinda wanted to slap the beard off of him.

Whilst The Prophet had it’s critics (noo, really?), it also had some very influential fans including John F Kennedy, Indira Gandhi and even the Beatles, but let’s face it, they were on a lot of gear at the time, and would have found meaning in a copy of the Yellow Pages had someone handed it to them mid spliff…

And even if you were happily off your tits, you’d never want to be stuck in a corner with Khalil at a party, as he’d nail you to the wall with his homilies and insights, and you’d end up slamming your cocktail stirrer in your eye in order to have an excuse to go to casualty and make good your escape….

But he MEANT WELL, lots of his insights are valuable and seven does seems to crop up quite a bit. That said, seven is a bit of a magic number overall, all tied up with spirituality, searching, reflection, work, completion and redemption.

Think about it: we have the seven virtues and seven deadly sins, the seven voyages of Sinbad and of course, the seven wonders of the world. In numerology seven represents struggle whilst in search for the truth, and there are seven colours of the rainbow.

In the bible, Job Chapter 7, he says “Is not all human life a struggle?”, and poor Detective Mills had to work through Se7en murders with grumpy old Detective Somerset before achieving an extremely unsatisfying outcome when some bloody fingered nutter handed himself in, and then finding his wife’s head in a UPS box as a final conclusion surely added insult to injury….

I mean the only one who doesn’t suffer is God himself as seven represents his perfection, sovereignty and holiness, exception being Craig David in ‘Seven Days’ where ‘he was making love by Wednesday and on Thursday and Friday and Saturday then chilled on Sunday’, the smug twat, but for the rest of us it’s all a bit of a grind….

So I guess the question is, if restricted to only being able to grunt a maximum of seven words at each other like cavemen (yes I am going to take this challenge that literally), which ones should be used in order to make our days with one another tolerable, or at least marginally fucking bearable?

Here, at long last, are my recommendations:

1. PEACE

This has to be numero uno.

It can be used during disagreements when you want the other person/people to back off, as an introduction when meeting new people i.e. ‘We come in peace’ a la Mr Spock, and just as a general appreciation when all is calm and bright accompanied by a happy sigh. It would also be good for breaking up others who may be fighting over something, which leads me to No. 2….

2. BACK!

In truth I’d have preferred ‘Fuck off!’ but that’s two words, and like ‘Go!’, sounds rather aggressive and final. If this strange seven worded world is populated by people like me, there would need to be at least one that will be able to facilitate a little space for one as we all need a bit of time on our own, plus a way of getting someone to fuck off if they are getting on our nerves, and ‘Peace’ guy isn’t around to calm things down.

Plus if accompanied by hand gestures, it can mean either get back or come back, so can also be quite ingratiating and welcoming.

3. UNDERSTAND

As in try and understand how I feel/my position/what this is for/why I/we/they did this. In other words, think beyond your own feelings and try to come to peace with what was done, why is was done, and what is going on for you right now.

4. PRAY

And before any of you accuse me of being all ‘Khalil’ after taking this piss out of him so mercilessly (had to be done 😉 ) I do think the idea of going somewhere and sitting down quietly to gather your thoughts, think about what has happened, how you might do things better or differently and, if you can, meditate and touch base with the Almighty (whichever one you use) is a good one.

Church/mass is meant to facilitate this for us.

Unfortunately for me and many others, the Catholics made it a boring, joyless duty, plus my church was lousy with sniping, carping, gossiping old hypocrites so I bucked against going as soon as I was old enough to not be scared of my parents anymore.

Now I am an old bird, I try to pray on my own regularly, either before sleep, on waking or just yelling stuff out loud to the man upstairs (doesn’t go down very well in a queue at my local Sainsburys), and I would happily gather with like minded folk in the spirit of contemplation, community, acceptance and fun were such a gathering to exist.

‘Pray’ could be used as an instruction e.g. ‘Go and pray you little shit!’, a way of letting others know you’re going off somewhere to pray, and an appeal to gather together and congregate when times are tough and people need support, or when there is something to celebrate.

5. LOVE

Of course. Do I really have to explain this? Didn’t think so! 😉

6. SORRY

Which doesn’t just seem to be the hardest word, it IS. Especially when you have a vast vocabulary at your fingertips and can wield words like Indiana Jones handles his whip, but even without being limited to the top seven, it always comes back to this one.

As no other word does the job it does, or benefits the sayer and the recipient quite the way ‘Sorry’ does, both for menial issues like standing on someone’s bearskin, or more major ones like deliberately being an utter shit to someone you love.

7. TRUST

I told a lie; trusting is harder than saying you’re sorry. But it’s essential as far as building communities, letting people in, fostering love and giving people the benefit of the doubt.

For the record, I don’t trust anyone.

I think everyone is out to get me in one form or another, that my nearest and dearest wouldn’t care if I died tomorrow and would, and do, use what they know about me in order to control me to the benefit of themselves.

But I’m off my fucking rocker, and I’m learning very slowly that giving people a chance is much less frighening then believing that the whole world is against me, hardening my heart and hiding away.

So there they are; the seven words I would choose if so limited to that number.

I might even go out for dinner tonight and test them out, Dice Man style:

Waiter: ‘Good evening madam!’

Me: ‘Peace!’

Waiter: ‘Right…..’, retreating rather nervously

Friend: ‘Can I have one of your chips?’

Me: ‘BACK!’

Me: ‘Understand?’ after I’ve stabbed her in the back of the hand with my fork.

Me: ‘Sorry…..’ as the police arrive to escort me out of the restaurant, and my companion hides under the table….

Thank God for our beautiful languages and extensive vocabularies, how did we survive as a species with such limitations?

Though in some ways I think we were better off back in the stone age, despite being so limited, where we had to work harder to make our societies work, knew everyone in our community and families lived and stayed together.

And words, as we all know can be twisted and used for less than honourable means than honest communication, so a world without the press and politicians would be worth living in a cave and chewing on the arse bone of a giraffe as far as I’m concerned, so maybe Khalil Gibran does have a point.

Pass me a bearskin and a nice big club; I’m going to get dinner started…..

I also hope that they would say that I don’t do it for shock value, to impress (for the record, it’s not big or clever), or to be ‘down with the kids’.

My blog is an anonymous, online journal and whilst I don’t go out of my way to offend anyone, it is my diary, my sanctuary, the place where I can record my innermost thoughts, so whilst every now and then I might curb my tongue when interacting with individuals if I think I’m going to upset them, I think that I’m entitled to say what I please in my own journal.

It’s my voice.

Of course I don’t use it every day, in every post for every subject/category.

I don’t say ‘Here’s my favourite f*cking recipe for falafel‘ or ‘F*ck me, I nearly got into a fr*gging headstand by myself today’! as that would be (a) inappropriate, (b) entirely gratuitous and (c) really rather silly.

That said, if something would come out of my mouth accompanied by profanity, that will be the way I write it.

But why do I feel the need to swear?

Dunno. I’ve always been unhappy, plus my Dad swore a lot for as long as I remember, and I learned that my aggressive use of bad language made me seem more formidable than I actually was, thus saved me a number of times from a good kicking in the playground, so I suppose it’s always been a habit that has, on the surface, done me more good than harm.

I’m not entirely sure who I’m trying to convince of that, you or me, but it is what it is now.

Plus being born with an inner core of fiery, molten hot anger probably hasn’t helped matters.

But I ams what I am, and that’s alls I am….

I know without a doubt it costs me followers; I was also told by someone that one of my ‘let rip’ posts was too critical and that I should ‘parody’ or ‘lampoon’ instead of lay into, but that is her voice, not mine and I want to stay authentic.

Plus a lot of people seem to like my ‘Basil Fawlty’ moments as ex of mine used to call them. My kinda people 😉

For those of you who find swearing offensive on religious grounds, whilst I respect your opinion, I can say hand on heart as someone who considers themselves spiritual, I do not think that God gives a flying f*ck about people using colourful language.

Actions speak louder than words, as they say, and it sadly tends to be the most striding, self declaring ‘religous’ and ‘devout’ folk who hold their hands up in horror when confronted by smallest profanity that judge, condemn, discriminate, carry the most hatred in their heart, and hence do the most damage to their fellow man.

Just because my mouth is dirty doesn’t mean my soul is.

Well it could probably do with a boil wash twice a year or so, but that is another story 😉

Can you swear and still be a good writer?

Ask Bret Easton Ellis, Irving Walsh or James Elroy. Whilst these established potty mouths may not be your cup of char, no one can deny their success or talent. If being sweary wasn’t who they are, they wouldn’t be so f*cking good at it.

What would offend me more than their profanity on the page would be if they substituted their f*cks for ‘flips’ or ‘fudge’ under politically correct duress as that would sound totally stoopid and, dare I say, inappropriate.

Note the use of ‘f*cking’ there, utilised because sometimes it is the only word that packs sufficient punch to get your feelings across when you feel totally passionately about something.

I’m sure you’ve all sent that ‘How to use the F Word’ poster above, and joking aside, it is probably the most versatile swear word in the English language. Indeed I would go so far to say that it is now a largely respected and generally accepted part of 21st century parlance.

And there are others that I, for one, cannot and will not do without, especially when a name or an issue can bring them to my lips within a nano second:

Kanye West Radio 1 interview and subsequent Twitter hissy fit – Tw*t

David Cameron/EDF nuclear energy strategy – B*stards

Miley Cyrus doing/saying anything – *W*nker

Paul Hollywood – Tit

Prince of Wales implying that he doesn’t want to be King – Bollocks

Piers Morgan – C***

Yes, that brings us to the much vilified ‘C’ word; and I don’t mean columnist.

I don’t tend to use this in my blog or indeed in life, but sometimes the person or situation does call for it.

I’m not fazed by c*** and don’t shy away from it, but I doubt if I will ever use it casually (in the way that my nephew and his friends do when they call each other it with genuine affection), and tend to keep it in reserve for maximum effect.

Why?

Well just think; if c*** becomes the norm like f*ck has, WTF will we use to replace it?

Take my advice and if it feels comfortable and you feel impelled to use profanity in your writing, then give yourself permission to do so.

As for the ‘C’ word, treat it like that dress/suit/heels/pair of jeans that you spent a small fortune on that still wrapped in tissue paper in the back of your wardrobe.

Keep it for ‘best’. 🙂

‘Be yourself; everyone else is already taken’

Oscar Wilde

*Wanker is normally a term reserved for the male of the species, but when it comes to MC, I’m prepared to make an exception.

I reached a turning point this weekend with regard to the way I feel about my looks.

Not that long ago, i.e. less than a year ago I wouldn’t even go outside to empty the bin without putting some make up on.

Since I was old enough to get away with wearing them, cosmetics have been my friend. I applied a generous mask foundation and powder. I turned up the drooping corners of my eyes with big ‘ticks’ of shadow, applied layer after layer of mascara, used black/blood red lipstick to distract the eye from my big teeth and general used a whole palate of colour as armour against the name calling, cruel asides and bullying I used to have to endure in secondary school.

Fortunately my ‘clarting my face with make up’ (as my Mum used to say) co-incided with the punk and new romantic era, so I fitted right in and no doubt looked the epitome of those times, with my aubergine hair, blackened eyes, sneering mouth and cold hauteur.

And when the times and make up fashion changed, it still took about 45 minutes of slappery for me to achieve a ‘mininal’ look that I could live with.

Even when going to the gym or staying with family or close friends, I would hastily apply some concealor, a bit of mascara and flesh lip colour so that they thought I woke up looking that way.

As for when A MAN stayed over, well you don’t even want to know the trouble and palaver I went through to look acceptable when he awoke, not that it ever did me any favours really. Men can smell self hatred a mile off.

But this weekend I, without even wearing my regulation huge sunglasses, not only went out without a scrap of make up, but I did a ‘before and after’ style photo shoot for a women’s magazine.

Not that I love or even accept my face, you understand. That would be far too ambitious a claim right now.

I’m just trying to get over myself and come to terms with the idea that I am more than the sum total of my looks, and that ‘me’ is more important than my appearance.

And I really ran with the experience. I laughed and joked about it, had a laugh with the other girls, bantered with the photographers and generally had a really fun day. The mood was aided by all the champagne they served with lunch but I was still very proud that I faced my fears and did it anyway.

Quite how I’ll feel when I see the end results (if I can bring myself to look at them at all) is another thing entirely, but I just felt like I needed something of a baptism of fire to get some traction with this issue, so to speak.

And over the last few days, I took it further and went to the shops completely au naturale. And whilst fewer men looked at me, women seemed to be more smiley and accepting of me. Maybe it’s because I look less aloof or imposing. But the freedom of just going out and thinking ‘Whatever’ has been immensely liberating. So what if people think I’m ugly? It actually seems more the case that I’m invisible rather than mockable, and that’s alright by me.

So I have been giving myself a bit of a pat on the back today.

Less self hatred?

Check!

Less jealousy/envy?

Check.

Less angry?

Check.

More forgiving/accepting?

Check!

It’s all coming together, I thought smugly to myself, I’m evolving more and more every day.

Until tonight.

When I happened to log into Facebook and was met by the most hideous photos of myself that I have ever seen in my life (well for a couple of months anyway) in full glorious technicolor on my friends Tina’s profile page.

I was gobsmacked.

And as I clicked on them in horror, I remember vaguelly that she took some later in the afternoon, when a few of us were a bit, well totally, trollied.

She didn’t drink much that day, so she and the other girl in the pictures look fine.

Well gorgeous actually.

Whereas I look absolutely hideous.

For a start, is obvious that I am pissed. My eyes are closed in half of them, in the other half I look totally out of it, and in all of them I am just downright coyote ugly.

Fuck!

My response was instantaneous.

My temper soared.

I immediately sent texts and emails to my hapless friend, pretty much saying ‘WTF Tina?! If you are my friend, TAKE THESE DOWN OR CROP ME OUT OF THEM! I hate them!’

I was absolutely livid and my hands were shaking on the mouse as I scrolled through them again, again and again. What kind of friend would upload these, knowing how I feel about my looks? So when she called me on my mobile I was ready to pounce.

Before she can get a word out I hiss ‘What were you thinking Tina? Don’t tell me you thought they were nice photos of me because you know they’re not!’

‘I thought they were, when they were little! I didn’t have my glasses so I couldn’t see them properly!’ she stammered, clearly in distress, ‘Then when I uploaded them I….’

‘Well of course,YOU look lovely in them!’ I continued bitterly, bristling with self righteous indignation ‘Good for you, and I can see why YOU want them on YOUR page, but the very least you could have done was crop me out of them!’

‘Sorry, I have go, I’m going out, ‘ I snapped briskly in reply, ‘speak to you later.’

And I put the phone down.

And seethed.

Some friend! Of all the selfish, vain, stupid….

…she always looks stunning, it’s alright for her…..

…didn’t give a shit about me….

…all over Facebook…..

Uh oh.

Let’s go through that check list again:

Less self hatred?

Erm….

Less jealousy/envy?

No. I was jealous of my friend because she looked nicer than me. And I’m ashamed.

Less ANGRY?

Oh fuck.

More forgiving/accepting?

…..

This was where I rallied a bit, because once I realised how unreasonable I was being, I immediately called my poor, long suffering friend and apologised for my tirade, my paranoia and my endless self obsession.

And she was lovely. She fully got why I was upset, was mortified that she upset me and that I still hate the way I look and promised me she’d warn me if she was going to upload photos of me in future.

Especially shit ones.

Oh, balls.

Do I really want to come from under the wing of ‘Big Sista S’?

Seems like I’m not a very nice person without (much of) her.

But I’d have never even tried to do this shoot if I was still huddled up in the cloud of her 100mg a day embrace.

Onwards and upwards.

Tines, I’m a jealous, self hating arsehole, and I’m sorry I flew off the handle.

I’m trying to improve but have to acknowledge that my shit runs deep and change will only happen gradually and not overnight.

My therapy journey, recovering from Borderline Personality Disorder and Generalized Anxiety Disorder. I write for welldoing.org , for Planet Mindful magazine, and for Muse Magazine Australia, under the name Clara Bridges. Listed in Top Ten Resources for BPD in 2016 by goodtherapy.org.

My therapy journey, recovering from Borderline Personality Disorder and Generalized Anxiety Disorder. I write for welldoing.org , for Planet Mindful magazine, and for Muse Magazine Australia, under the name Clara Bridges. Listed in Top Ten Resources for BPD in 2016 by goodtherapy.org.